My sister Kathy was born in Indianapolis six weeks before my third birthday. “Kathy’s a Hoosier,” was announced from time to time in our family as if Indiana were an exotic place like Bora Bora. As a young girl, Kathy blushed when identified as a Hoosier, not sure if she should be proud or embarrassed.

The place of Kathy’s birth and Dad’s short stint with American Airlines constituted the entirety of family lore for our year in the Hoosier state. It seems that nothing else worth mentioning occurred there.

Years later, Mom spoke of Dad’s high expectations for his position, an American Airlines Agent, when they prepared to leave Columbus. His uniform would be as impressive as a naval officer’s dress blues including the flat cap with a golden medallion. American Airlines was determined to make traveling by airliner glamorous, like sailing on the Queen Mary and other ocean liners. Planes were flagships with four star admiral’s pennants emblazoned below the cockpit window. Cocktails served before surf and turf dinners by attractive stewardesses emulated shipboard elegance.

Although she never said as much, Mom could not have been happy about leaving Columbus, her parents, friends, and St. Augustine’s parish for a new city where she knew no one. At 22, she had a active two year-old boy and recently discovered she was pregnant. Yet she yielded to her husband’s enthusiasm for a position that he considered a great opportunity in this new industry.

I am sure Mom’s mother grumbled about her only grandson moving away whle her dad was stoic, but I later learned that Grandmother Calvert was exasperated. A college degree was what she believed her sons needed to rise in business and the community. Uncle Bill was dutifully taking classes at Ohio State, and Grandmother had spoken with an Ohio State dean she knew about night school after Dad insisted he would not become a full-time student even though many veterans were paying tuition with the GI Bill. I also suspect Grandmother was sure that her daughter-in-law needed her guidance in raising her grandson as a proper young man who could navigate Columbus society.

Dad envisioned building a career in the aviation industry as air travel rapidly expanded in the years after the war. He plunged into the training manuals and safety regulations. He mastered checking the passengers’ names on the manifest, filing requests for seats by windows or on the aisle, and reassuring first-time flyers, and sending a fully loaded plane to the runway for takeoff. He told Mom that he was offended that he was expected to load bags into the plane’s luggage bay as well as check in passengers, but brushed it off and said he said it was like starting in the mail room in a corporation and rising to the executive suite. Dad was confident. He savored the idea of achieving success without spending years in college.

Mom surely missed her family and old friends. She wrote to her folks and friends frequently, but responses were slow. As her pregnancy progressed, she was cooped up with me in a small apartment while Dad worked long hours on varied shifts and pursued his ambitions for advancement. It’s likely that he detailed his frustrations with Mom in a running monologue when he came home as he did in later years, but I doubt that he recognized her boredom and loneliness.

In a few months, Kathy was born and Dad passed out cigars to his boss and co-workers. The miracle of new life in the form of a cooing pink baby undoubtedly stirred Dad’s enthusiasm for a while. I suspect I was jealous of the attention Kathy attracted and further burdened Mom’s patience.

* * * * *

Decades later, while visiting her when she was in her seventies and had suffered more than one stroke, I asked her why they left Indianapolis. Did he become discouraged about his prospects at American Airlines? Did he give up and totally lose interest in his work?” I wanted to ask if he was drinking or depressed, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

She dismissed these questions with a wave of her hand. Instead she simply said, “I went to your Uncle Bill Stephen’s farm.” I knew her dad and mom had moved there to run the farm while Uncle Bill worked the night shift at the railroad at the Columbus yard. He made the two-hour drive to plow, plant, and harvest crops.

I was mulling this over in shocked silence when she added, “I don’t know why your dad quit American, but he didn’t stay in Indianapolis long. He went back to Columbus and stayed at Grandmother’s. After a while he found a job. I can’t remember the company.”

My parents had separated? I had never heard about this before. When I tried to question her further, she pressed her lips together and shook her head definitively. The subject was closed, and there was no one else to ask. That night, I pondered this new information for a long time before I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I rolled over intent on dozing for a while. Then I thought about Mom’s acknowledgement that she went to the farm with Kathy as a baby and me a four-year old without Dad. This new fact jolted me awake.

As I lay in the warm bed, a scene from those days broke through the surface of my memory. Mom was in the driver’s seat of her dad’s pre-war car struggling with the knob atop a black metal rod that rose from the floor. Her face was contorted as she jerked the gearshift around to find reverse so we could back away from a store. I knew this was a true memory, probably the earliest I’ve excavated from the depth of my hippocampus. There were no snapshots from that time, and Mom ceased driving when we left the farm. A moment like the madeline that brought Marcel Proust’s memories flooding back in Remembrance of Things Past.

More memories came to me that morning. I recalled following Grandpa around the barnyard doing the chores. He let me throw handfuls of feed to the chickens while they clucked continuously and pecked rapidly at the grains of feed. I screamed with delight at the strutting birds.

When he leaned over the rail fence to pour buckets of slop in the hog troughs, I stood back as the mud-covered beasts squealed and grunted and shouldered their way to the trough. From my eyes, the hogs looked huge, nothing like the pink piggies in my picture books. I was fascinated by these animals rolling in the muck and enjoying the filth. Quite a contrast to Mom’s insistence that I wash my hands before meals.

When the first calf was born on the farm, Grandpa asked me to name the new addition to the herd. “Gene,” I declared, probably because I was a fan of cowboy actor Gene Autry. The calf was a red Guernsey, and Grandpa always took me to the pasture to point out Gene on subsequent visits to the farm.

One warm afternoon, Grandma, Mom, and I sat on the front-porch swing shelling peas from Grandma’s kitchen garden. No one was talking when we heard a car on the county road and then the mile long lane to cluster of buildings on the hilltop, the farmhouse, barn, corn crib, and chicken coop. We all stared until a car emerged from the trees and approached the barnyard.

“It’s your Uncle Bill Calvert,” said Mom. As the car came to a stop in the barnyard beyond the tiger lilies lining the white picket fence, Mom gasped, “No, it’s your Dad in Bill’s car.” When Dad opened the gate, I ran to him and clasped his legs. He picked me up, held me at arm’s length, and gave me a big hug.

He held me as he mounted the two steps to the porch.

“What brings you here? “Mom said in evenly from the swing.

“You, Irene. We need to talk. I’ve missed you terribly.” Dad looked only at her.

Grandma set aside her peas. “Michael, we need to check on the rhubarb and cucumbers,” she said. Taking my hand she led me off the porch. I tried to resist, but she had a firm grip and pulled me toward the garden.

Mom and Dad walked slowly down the lane, Mom looking straight ahead with her arms crossed, while Dad turned toward her gesturing. Dad stayed for supper and helped tuck me into bed.

In the morning, I rushed downstairs where Mom was washing dishes, “Where’s Daddy?”

She dried her hands, squatted so we were face to face, and said, “He had to leave, but he’ll be back next Saturday. She smiled and wrapped me into her arms.

“You almost hit Mr. Slemmons with a yellow toy tractor you tossed over the railing from the deck,” Mom told me on numerous occasions over the years. “After letting loose a string of cuss words, he yelled up to me, ‘Control that child.’ He was not happy!” She apologized profusely and worried that Dad’s job and their first home was in jeopardy. No more toys on the deck.

Mom delighted in setting up the garage apartment on the nursery. Dad recruited his brother and his high school friend Jim Connor to heft furniture up the outside steps. A round oak table and matching chairs came from Grandmother’s basement, but Mom picked out new maple bedroom bedroom suite and a matching couch and two chairs for the living and dining area. They celebrated with a dinner on the deck. Jim brought beer, and Mom made spaghetti and a salad. They talked about old times—the years before the war. At 24, Dad was the oldest of those watching the pewter sliver of river fade to gray and black, then disappear into the dark tree line merging with the darkening eastern sky.

“Your Dad filled out when he was loading sod, shrubs, and trees onto trucks, digging holes and trenches, and installing irrigation pipes,” said Mom. She added with a wistful smile, “His shoulders broadened, and he got stronger. Tall enough, handsome for sure, he became darker during the summer. Tall, dark, and handsome.” She nodded to confirm her assertion.

Dad enjoyed working outside. Mom knew he was home when she heard him kicking the mud off his boots outside the door before pushing open the door, slipping them off, padding inside to for a kiss, and showering before dinner. Sitting on the deck as the sun set, fireflies blinking in the twilight, and soft breezes displacing the heat of the day became their favorite way to end the day. Mom remembered those two years as good times for her and Dad, maybe their best.

By the spring of 1945, an Allied victory was in sight. Headlines heralded good news every day. The Remagen bridge across the Rhine was taken, our Russian allies were entering Berlin, Mussolini was killed by Italian partisans, and Hitler committed suicide in his bunker. After all the gruesome death and destruction, there was no irony in embracing this as good news.

On V-E Day, Mom and Dad drank beer, danced on the deck, and listened to a deliriously happy crowd in Times Square where a sailor kissed a young woman in a backward bending ballet pose captured in an iconic photo. I slept in peace.

Dad breathed deeply of the euphoria permeating the air after V-E Day. The horrors that American troops found in Auschwitz and Buchenwald reaffirmed the justification for the war. Landscaping for new homes was his part in building a bright future for his country now that the menace of Mussolini and Hitler were gone. Tojo would follow them into history sooner or later.

Over the busy summer, Dad progressed from laborer to truck driver and then crew chief. Suppliers and builders liked the young veteran. Soon he was preparing estimates and conducting final inspections for Mr. Slemmons. Orders were pouring in, and Slemmons was adding crews to meet the demand. Economists and people old enough to remember the Great Depression doubted that all the returning servicemen could find jobs, but Dad and others in his generation brimmed with a frothy optimism. Dad envisioned expansion of the nursery and entry into paving, fencing, and lawn maintenance. He saw himself behind a desk in the office. He wouldn’t be wearing the blue serge suit, but he would be in management. These plans would be developed during the winter months when business slowed.

Mom said it all changed on a cool morning in the fall. Mr. Slemmons introduced Captain Slemmons of the Army Air Corps and two of his fellow officers to Dad and the work crews. Mr. Slemmons beamed with paternal pride as he announced that they would join him at the nursery as soon as they mustered out. Dad went through the motions of his work day without his usual enthusiasm. That evening, Mom said he angrily told her that Slemmons had betrayed him. He spoke of going to a competitor and taking customers with him.

Mom listened patiently and nodded emphatically when Dad asked for affirmation. He paced and ranted for over an hour. Finally she motioned to a chair and said, “I understand everything you’ve said, but please, I’m begging you, please don’t do anything rash. We’re lucky to have a place to live by ourselves. Promise me you won’t quit this job until you’ve got another one.” Dad hesitated, but he promised. She thanked him with a kiss.

When Grandmother heard about Dad’s new competition at work, she renewed her plea that Dad enroll at Ohio State. She pointed out that he could even go to medical school with the GI Bill and his VA pension, but Dad was on a different road to success. Schemes for new businesses scrolled through his head as he wrestled shrubs from the truck into holes lined with peat and labored through landscaping assignments. He knew he would soon be behind a desk with his name on a triangle of stained walnut beside pictures of his wife and son. Even Grandmother would be proud of him.

Another of Mom’s favorite stories was the Sunday when her brother, my Uncle Bill Stephen burst through the door while we were having supper with Mom’s folks on 18th Avenue. Deeply tanned by the Pacific sun and pleased with his surprise arrival, he distributed gifts from the Soloman Islands, his last posting.

Uncle Bill Stephen was impatient to begin the life he planned during the long humid nights beneath palm trees. In short order, he investigated prices for farms in Southeastern Ohio. He was tired of taking orders and wanted to be his own boss. Owning a farm promised independence. Although he grew up in Columbus and had no experience in farming, Uncle Bill was an optimist in a time when returning servicemen brimmed with hope for the future. His wife, my Aunt Josephine, shared his enthusiasm for this new beginning. Financing was available through the G.I. Bill. He reclaimed his old job as a brakeman on the Pennsylvania Railroad as he awaited word on his loan application.

Dad’s high school buddy, Jim, often came by after the dishes were washed and I was tucked into bed. He began his evenings at The Clock bar downtown and when the men that stopped on the way home for a shot of Cutty Sark or a tall draft beer began to clear out, Jim bought a six pack of Gambrinus and came to our house.

Dad held forth on his latest business scheme or job prospect. Jim downed several beers and offered words of encouragement. Mom gently kicked Jim out at 10 o’clock, because Dad’s work began early. Her next challenge was to slow Dad’s monologue and get some rest.

One evening in late September, Jim reported a conversation with a guy at The Clock Restaurant who said American Airlines was hiring agents. Their offices would be at Port Columbus, the name the Chamber of Commerce had given to landlocked Columbus’ airport. Jim pulled a folded brochure from his vest pocket showing a young man wearing a modified Navy officer’s dress blues. In the background a DC-3 was taking off into a blue sky with a few soft clouds.

Dad was ready to join. He told Mom it was a new industry “just getting off the ground.” After pausing for acknowledgment of his pun, he went on to say, he wanted to “get in on the ground floor.” She greeted his second pun with a groan, and encouraged him to look into what sounded like a good opportunity.

Two days later, Uncle Bill Calvert attempted a wolf whistle as Dad walked toward his car in his tailored suit. Bill drove and listened patiently as Dad explained all the advantages of becoming part of the aviation industry. Bill had a term paper to write so he would wait for Dad, but he mainly watched planes land and take off.

The office was in a new wing of the airport. A petite blonde in a two-piece suit asked if she could bring Dad a cup of coffee. She directed Dad to a seat in one of the modern chairs around a low, oval-shaped table on a plush rug. As he sipped coffee, he looked at pictures of airliners aloft on the walls.

A tall man with streaks of gray hair, approached him and introduced himself as Rob Cramer and led him to an office. In response to a series of questions, Dad summarized his education, military service, and his interest in becoming part of American Airlines team. Mr. Cramer seemed pleased with Dad’s answers. Finally he cleared his throat and leaned forward and said, “Unfortunately. Bob we have more than enough applicants for our positions here, but you would be a such good fit for our team that I would like to offer you a position in Indianapolis where we begin service next month.”

After further discussion, Dad assured Mr. Cramer that he was definitely interested in the Indianapolis opportunity. There was further discussion. Mom was hesitant to leave family and friends, but open to an opportunity that thrilled Dad. Grandmother made one more argument for college and everyone said they would miss Dad, Mom, and the first grandson and nephew who recently celebrated his second birthday.

In a month, we all boarded an American Airlines DC-3 for the flight to Indianapolis. Mom said I looked out the window with no apprehension while she squeezed Dad’s hand who wore a fixed smile as they flew to a new life in Indianapolis.

It was early evening when passengers streamed off the train carrying Mom and Dad home from the VA hospital in Memphis in 1945 and entered the dim, cavernous Union Station and flowed around our circle to the stairs. With the high windows and grand skylight blacked out after far away Pearl Harbor was bombed, the concourse was somber, but they were warmly welcomed.

Mom said she held me as Grandmother stepped forward to kiss her son and hold him tight for a long time. She gave Mom a peck on the cheek and smiled as her youngest son, Uncle Bill Calvert, approached Dad with his hand extended. Dad took his hand, but clapped his arm around his shoulder pulling his younger brother into a hug. After a quick embrace with Mom’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa, Dad gently reached out to me, then nestled warily in Mom’s arms. I buried my face in Mom’s shoulder, but peeked out at this new man smiling and cooing so close. After a while, Mom said I tentatively let him take my hand.

“Let’s celebrate at Forrester’s. Some ice cream, Michael?” said Grandmother to everyone, but her eyes focused on me. My face brightened as I turned my eyes toward Mom.

Grandpa parked his ’36 Ford in front of their small, clapboard house where Mom grew up on 18th Avenue. Dad muscled his duffel bag and Mom’s brown plaid suitcase out of the boot as Grandpa called the car’s trunk. Dad followed Mom onto the porch, into the foyer, and up the narrow stairs to her old room which was chockablock with my crib and two single beds. Grandpa had moved Mom’s brother’s bed into her small bedroom. He was a Navy Seabee then somewhere in the Pacific Theater. Dad pushed the beds together while Mom put me in the crib, pulled off my oxblood leather “big boy” shoes and covered me with a colorful quilt she had sewn from scraps before I was born.

Mom liked to relate how Dad joined me on the floor as I played with blocks with raised letters from A to Z. He put A on top of D and added another D, and said, “DAD”, pointing to the blocks. Mom laughed and told him it was much too early to teach me letters. If didn’t know my letters, I apparently knew how to topple a stack of blocks and promptly did so. Dad grinned and rebuilt the stack. I demolished it, laughed heartily.

“Again,” I said each time the blocks came down as I giggled. We moved on to pushing cars back and forth. By lunch time, I was in Dad’s lap as he sat crosslegged on the floor. After lunch, he slipped me an extra cookie. We were then buddies.

In the days following Dad’s return, we established a routine. After Grandpa went to work, Mom, Dad, and I usually walked to St. Augustine’s school playground. Dad gently pushed the swing while Mom held me on her lap. His hands were around my waist as I climbed from rung to rung up to the small slide. He placed me on the shiny metal and released me when I was ready. Mom caught me, swung me up in the air, and set me on my feet. I raced to the ladder to repeat the game.

Afterwards at nearby Elban and Scott’s Confectionery, I pointed to a piece of hardtack candy from the same glass case Mom remembered from her visits after school. Dad carried me on his shoulders most of the way home. Grandma found children’s books she had saved, and I listened to Dad and Mom read them on the glider on the front porch so often that Mom said I shouted out the words on each page in advance.

On Sundays, we all piled into Grandpa’s Ford and drove to St. Augustine’s modest church for Mass. Everyone except Grandpa and me went to the front to receive communion. Grandpa knelt, stood, and sat when everyone else did, but he was not Catholic. Grandpa, his thick gray hair parted in the middle atop his long, sallow face, waited in the pew. Outside on the church steps he extracted some Prince Albert’s tobacco from his black pouch, tamped it into the bowel of his short curved pipe, struck a match, lit the pipe and drew several long breaths, and exhaled blue-gray smoke. Only then did his features settle into their familiar state of repose.

Sunday dinner was usually hosted by Grandmother Calvert. She presided at the head of the long table covered with an Irish linen tablecloth and glittering with fine china, the good silver, and a lighted candelabra. In a deep voice that belied his thin frame and hesitant manner, Uncle Bill Calvert intoned a blessing mentioning Dad’s buddies at the front and Mom’s brother in the Pacific. Classical music drifted in from the living room. I sat with my chin barely higher than the table, balanced on three thick books as Mom spooned vegetables and small pieces of beef into my mouth. Dad held a glass of milk to my lips between bites.

Early on Wednesday mornings, Mom said that Dad convinced to join Uncle Bill Calvert for Mass and communion at St. Patrick’s, the Dominican Fathers’ Gothic downtown church with stained-glass windows with the names of Irish donors shown at the bottom. Uncle Bill often donned a cassock and surplice and served as an altar boy although he was a college student. Dad lit votive candles in memory of buddies from his outfit killed in Italy. Some he had seen receive last rites from a chaplain. He knelt with his eyes closed for several minutes afterwards. Uncle Bill and his friend Father Costello often joined him on the kneelers.

The bright green buds on the trees unfurled to leaves that darkened as Spring gave way to summer. One day, Dad and Mom took the bus downtown to the Veterans Administration and Dad registered for the disability pension the hospital had arranged when he was discharged in Memphis. Although the VA’s rating of disability fluctuated from 60 to 100% as his condition changed, he received a monthly check for the rest of his life. A calendar from the Disabled American Veterans always hung on our kitchen wall.

One evening at supper, Dad asked Grandpa if Creasy was hiring. Grandpa shook his head, and said, “The wholesale grocery business is slow. Everyone is living on rations. Our delivery trucks are going out half full.”

“I understand. I need to find a job. I appreciate your hospitality, but I want to find a place for Irene, Michael, and me to live.”

He nodded as he held his pipe in the cup of his hand and lit a match on the sole of his shoe. “Maybe Timkins on Fifth Avenue. They’re working three shifts to make roller bearings for the army. Buckeye Steel’s working around the clock, too. But you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

Mom said Dad read the ColumbusCitizen thoroughly every morning. He looked carefully at the maps showing the progress of the Allies gradually pushing the Germans toward their fatherland. “There’s where my outfit was when I left, and I’ll bet they’re almost to Venice” he said pointing to the map. Humming at first, he broke into the fight song of the Field Artillery. “Over hill, over dale, we hit the dusty trail. Those caissons are rolling along, it’s Hi Hi Hee in the Field Artillery.” He tried to teach me the words or, at least, the melody as I stood in my wooden playpen.

Dad then moved on to the “help wanted” pages of the Columbus Citizen across the dining room table. He circled the fine print describing potential jobs for him with a red crayon he found in a drawer. He added a big check next to some. He charted their locations on bus routes and planned trips to plants and businesses where he could apply for work.

One story Mom took pleasure in relating was about a tailored suit. On a Wednesday after Mass, Uncle Bill said he had a surprise. They parked in front of Rich’s Men’s Store. Inside Bill asked for Milton Schwartz. A short, bald man with a tape measure draped around his neck appeared and asked who was getting a suit. Bill jerked his thumb in Dad’s direction. Soon Dad was holding his arms out and looking straight ahead as instructed by Mr. Schwartz more than once. He frowned with his entire face. His brother grinned mischievously at him in the three-panel mirror. Mr Schwartz methodically measured and jotted down dad’s instep, waist, chest, and arms. Dad sputtered his objections to Bill who shrugged and said, “Mom thinks you need a suit to get a proper position in an office. She’s calling businessmen she used to know.” Blue serge was the fabric Dad picked hurriedly from the array of black, gray, tan, brown swaths laid out by the tailor as he muttered his objections to Bill.

“I’ll find my own damn job,” Dad told his brother. “I may not want to be cooped up in an office either.” Bill nodded, and Dad added in a softer voice, “Mom needs to understand that I’m not a child.”

Uncle Bill sighed and said, “I know what you mean.”

One morning Dad saw an ad “ABLE-BODIED MAN WANTED for landscaping work. Veteran preferred. Comes with small apartment” said the small print in the newspaper ad.

“An apartment with a job. This is our ticket out of here. Your folks are great but here we’d have our own place.” Mom’s face lit up. After putting me down for a nap, Dad and Mom waited on the steps for Uncle Bill. Dad was in his full uniform with service medals from North Africa, and Italy on his chest, and shoes shining like polished ebony. Dad held an envelope with his service history and discharge papers.

They drove along Olentangy River Road north of the massive Ohio Stadium until they saw the low sign for Slemmons Nursery and Landscaping behind a row of red, white, and blue pansies. A cinder lane led to several one-story clapboard buildings and a large lot with rows of flowers and shrubs in pots and small trees with roots wrapped in burlap. Uncle Bill parked in the shade of a mature oak. “No babies in this nursery,” said Dad as he opened the door. Uncle Bill chuckled and Mom frowned.

Mom said Dad approached the car with both thumbs up and a big grin. “We’ve got a job and a place to live,” he said as he got in the car. He proceeded to give Mom and Uncle Bill a full report on his success with Mr. Slemmons.

“When I walked into his office, the first thing I noticed was a gold-fringed American flag in the corner and a framed photo of a young marine. After we shook hands, I asked who he was. ‘That’s my son Sam, Jr. He’s in France with General Patton. I hope to God they finish off Hitler soon. Now tell me about your service and why you’re stateside.’ ”

“I told him my National Guard unit was activated right after Pearl Harbor, and my field artillery outfit helped push Rommel out of Morocco and across North Africa. Then we fought in Italy and Southern France. The Army sent me home to a military hospital in Memphis and discharged me this spring. I’ve got a wife and young son, and I need a job and a place to live. After glancing at the paperwork, Mr. Slemmons stood and said, ‘I’m proud to be able to help a man who has served our country. Let me show you the apartment.’ “

Uncle Bill and Mom were introduced and followed Mr. Slemmons to a two-car garage with an outside staircase to the second floor. The apartment was small with one large bedroom and a tiny bathroom, but a broad deck along the back was an unexpected amenity. The plant yard was in the foreground and beyond were woods and a sliver of the Olentangy River.

“If this suits you, you’ve got a job and the apartment above the garage, Corporal Calvert. Of course, we’ll have to work out pay and other details, but I think you’ll find me to be fair to a veteran.

Mom said Dad were in high spirits as Uncle Bill drove them back to 18th Avenue. Dad laughed and said, “I won’t have much need for that blue serge suit, at least not for a while.”

“You’re going to have to tell Mom,” said Uncle Bill. “I’m leaving that to you.”

“No problem. I’ll call her tonight.”

Mom always ended this story by saying, “Your Dad squeezed my hand and gave me a brief kiss in the back seat.”